Page 38 of The Expat Affair

“Delicious,” I say, and Lars and his cousin give a little cheer. Iput the sandwich down, exchanging it for a couple of fries I dip in the bowl of mayonnaise. “So what kind of artist are you?”

Lars hikes up on a hip, pulling his cellphone from a pocket. He scrolls through the pictures, colorful drawings of people dressed inbright colors. Finally, he stops on one and flips his phone around. Three kids in orange shirts and green pants, their heads tilted together, arms slung around each other and a pink and blue LOVE sign. The background is a sea of yellow and purple flowers.

I lean in closer and zoom in on their faces, smooth swipes of dusty blue with no depth to depict the features, but the hair is like his, long and dark. I don’t miss that Lars has drawn the most beautiful family, even though he grew up without one.

“This is fantastic,” I say, handing him back his phone. “You’re very talented.”

“You really think so?”

“I do. I really think so.”

He grins, a childlike smile that matches his impish eyes, so brown they’re almost black. He slides the phone back into his pocket. “What do you do?”

I feel myself deflate a little at his question. “Oh, nothing nearly as interesting. I’m a travel writer. Destination itineraries, insider guides, adventures and getaways. “Twenty-Four Hours in Prague” or “Walking the Camino del Norte.” Things like that.”

“Have you?”

“Walked the Camino del Norte?” I shake my head. “No, but by the time I finished that article, I felt like I had. I’m pretty sure I had phantom blisters.”

“You don’t have to actually travel to the places you write about?”

Automatically, my brain flits to the detective, his warning words ringing through my head like a scream.Let me know if you plan to leave town.I think of the article I was working on in my tiny, beige room before what happened with Xander grounded me. “Top Tips for Tipping Around the World.” Now the words assault me with their stupidity.

“Normally I do, at least, I’m supposed to. But the magazine gave me less than a week to write that Camino article when ittakes five to walk the trail. They also gave me zero travel budget and basically asked me to write it for free, so any inaccuracies are their own damn fault.”

These are common issues I run up against. Most companies need the story yesterday, and they’d rather pay in comped hotel rooms than actual cash. The ones thatdopay, pay for shit. I have to fight for every euro, and even then, it’s barely enough to get by. I don’t know how writers do it. For me, this is not a long-term career.

Lars plucks a couple of napkins from the holder and wipes sauce from his hands. “Every artist’s struggle. You’ve got to demand your own worth. Don’t be giving away your art for free.”

“Easy for you to say. How much do your pieces go for?”

“The one I just showed you? That one’s a gift, but normally somewhere around €2000.”

My eyes bulge at the number. “If I get offered a quarter of that, the magazine acts like they own me. The problem is there are so many of us out there, all fighting for the same collaborations and campaigns, which means we’re all desperate enough to work for peanuts. The magazines have us by the balls and they know it.”

“No offense, but it doesn’t sound like you like your job very much.”

I nibble on a fry, taking the time to think. “I guess I just thought it would be different, you know? That travel writing would be an easy way of going to all these exotic, faraway places, to really spend time there and experience how it feels to live in that place, even if only for a week or two. I thought it meant fun and adventure and me figuring my shit out. My sister calls it myEat, Pray, Loveera—not that I have those kinds of funds or am particularly interested in promoting some quasi-spiritual soul-searching manifesto to a bunch of white women in the same sorry, sad boat as I am, but I would like to experience those things forme. To get some sense of what my future could look like, so I can let go of the past.”

It’s the first time I’ve verbalized these thoughts out loud to anyone, let alone myself, and it’s kind of a revelation. I don’t want to write that article about tipping or the ten cheapest European cities. I don’t want to submit another pitch only to get rejected, don’t want to slave over another five thousand words only for them to end up as digital dust. I want to get paid for my work, but even more so, I want to write something I care about. Something people want to actuallyread.

Lars picks up his sandwich, shaking off a drizzle of sauce. “So write about that. Well, maybe not the quasi-spiritual manifesto stuff, but the part about leaving behind the past to find your future was good. I’d read a story about that.”

He says it so sincerely, as if it would be the easiest thing in the world for me to just... put myself out there like that, especially when I’m nowhere near done working it out in my own head. I left St. Francisville... not on a whim, not exactly, but the move wasn’t all that well thought out, either. More like,screw it, I’m out. A last-ditch Hail Mary to remove myself from a place I could no longer stay. Get up and go. See where life takes you.Thatwas the plan.

My Year of Adventure, hijacked by tragedy and terror. I think about Xander, the break-in, the tracker. I think about the hope I felt that night on Xander’s terrace, the excited tingle that anything was possible, and I want that feeling back. I just... I want it back.

The door bursts open, blowing in a swarm of college kids on an icy wind. They’re loud and obviously drunk, but the sight of them is like a warning shot of adrenaline direct to the vein. One of them, a man in a beanie and a shearling coat is a good deal older than the rest, and something about him prickles the hairs on the back of my neck. I’ve seen this guy somewhere. In the club, maybe? Instantly, I’m sober.

“What’s wrong?” Lars says. “Did you lose something?”

I slide my bag onto my lap and rummage through it, one eyeon the man as he taps his card to the register. “That guy up there, the one in the beanie. I’m pretty sure he’s following me.”

My fingers don’t make contact with anything foreign, no smooth, round objects along the bottom of my bag. I unzip the inside pocket and shove my hand inside. Nothing in the outside pocket, either.

Lars leans into the table, lowering his voice, casting glances at the guy in the beanie. “Why would he be following you?”

I make a sound in my throat, not a laugh, exactly, but also not an answer.

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